


Degrade

by Fudgyokra



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode: s01e12-13 Apprentice Parts 1-2, Humiliation, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:36:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: Slade always won in the end.





	Degrade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freakedelic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/gifts).



> Prompt: Humiliation, requested by an "anon" on Tumblr... Yeah that's right, I know who you are. >w>

 

He'd been at Slade's mercy for two damned days. With every whim Dick was forced to obey for the sake of his friends' lives, he felt more and more disgusted with himself. Being an apprentice to a criminal made him feel grimy, like no amount of scalding showers could wash away the things he'd done for this man.

It was to keep the Titans alive, he reminded himself. A slow, painful death from the malicious bots in their bloodstreams wasn't something he was going to let them suffer through just to maintain his pride. And, oh, Slade made sure with each passing hour that he had less and less of that.

"Apprentice," he said, and Dick recognized by now that it was a command to approach. When he didn't, he could see that searing blue eye narrow behind the mask. "You heard me, kid. You know what I expect."

Dick's breathing started to turn into something ragged. It happened like this every so often: A pulse of adrenaline-fueled hatred shooting through his system, making him clench his fists at his sides and do everything in his power to resist.

Slade always won in the end. Whether it be with threats or with physical violence, it always came down to Dick being the loser with his face on the ground, begging for the man to have mercy on his compatriots. Even so, the thrill he got from hesitating at a simple command was enough to rebuild some strength - to win back a little of his self-respect.

When Slade stomped toward him, Dick puffed out his chest, refusing to back down. "Oh, dear," the former said with a click of his tongue. "I'm afraid we'll have to do something about that defiance."

Before any sort of quip could form, Slade slammed him into the wall face-first, with an arm twisted behind his back.

As per their tradition, Dick's grunt of pain prefaced a wordy curse tossed at the man, who brushed it off with little more than an amused hum. "Are you ticklish, Robin?" he asked, like it was perfectly mundane.

Of all the punishments he expected, Slade digging the fingers of his free hand into Dick's ribs was not one of them. He was ashamed to find that it showed, too, because he made a loud, choked sound at the feeling and instinctively tried to rear back from it, only to bump into the man's chest and reinforce how trapped he was. How small and weak and defenseless. It made his guts churn.

"What the hell are you doing?" he gasped, squirming under the tickling.

"What does it look like?" It looked like Slade had lost his mind, but Dick couldn't bring himself to say that. All he could do, really, was twist and fidget beneath the fingers, which chased after him at every turn until his gasps were coming out as something sounding almost like laughter.

He was mortified, praying to whatever god would listen that the reflexive tears welling in his eyes didn't spill. "Stop."

The word "stop" didn't exist in Slade's vocabulary; he made that painfully obvious when he let go of Dick's arm and started assaulting his sides with both hands now, holding the boy in place with the sheer mass of his body.

It was humiliating in its infantilism, but the worse threat loomed on the horizon when Slade flattened one strong hand over his bladder, pulling him back against him while his other hand continued its onslaught.

The whole situation was ridiculous, but Dick felt fearful anyway. Something about the way the man pulled and pushed, pinched and prodded, reminded him of the unsavory predator lurking on the fringes. Even when he wasn't being outright violent, Slade was finding ways to break his precious apprentice down. Dick wasn't foolish: He saw that. That was why when he gasped in his next breath and Slade only tickled that much harder, he felt a stab of very real terror grip him.

"Stop," he tried again, weakly. "This isn't funny."

"I disagree," Slade answered. Dick could hear the smile in his voice as loudly as the menace lurking beneath.

His legs quivered. His face burned. This wasn't right, this wasn't right, this wasn't– "Let me go. I can't…hold it." It was even more shameful to say it out loud, but he should have figured Slade would make it worse.

"It's all right," he said in a bastardization of what one might call a soothing tone. "Let it go, my little Robin."

"Fuck you," Dick spat, trying to kick back at him without results. All it did was get him pinned tighter, and that was after Slade had nudged his legs further apart, spreading him out against the stone.

The expletive was met with tight circles being rubbed into his pelvic area, enough to lure sharp pangs of warning from his shuddering bladder. His breaths were wheezy on top of that, which was nearly just as bad. He sounded pathetic, panting against the wall and losing the struggle with every twitch of his high-strung body.

He lost control with a sob. He couldn't help it, not with Slade's fingers being everywhere he didn't want them, biting into the flesh with a resolve that not even Dick could hope to match.

Truly, he didn't know which was worse: The actual wetting himself, or the tears that came while he did.

The man had done it; he had reduced Dick to this animalistic behavior with mere touches, bringing him down to the lowest he'd been yet. But the real fear lied in the knowledge that there were always ways to go lower. Ways that the hardness in Slade's pants, pressing against Dick's thigh even as he was messing them both, pointed to.

He grit his teeth against his cries, but it was no use. Slade just laughed - that low, cruel rumble. When it was over and Dick thought he couldn't feel more filthy, any more degraded, Slade leaned in to whisper, "Good boy. Now clean up your mess."

And he let him go. He didn't bother to stick around, not even while Dick slouched against the wall and tried, in vain, to stop the hot tears that spilled out in streams from under his mask.


End file.
